


honey, we got your disease

by TheCherryPieButWithLifeguards (TheAceApples)



Category: Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle (Movies), The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jumanji Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bigender Joshua Faraday, GFY, Genderqueer Character, Genderqueer Red Harvest, Multi, no betas we die like man, quarantine does some weird shit to your brain y'all that's all i'm saying, shifting pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23308303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAceApples/pseuds/TheCherryPieButWithLifeguards
Summary: Jumanjiis the bane of Joshua Faraday'sfuckingexistence.
Relationships: Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks, Joshua Faraday & Goodnight Robicheaux, Joshua Faraday & Red Harvest, Joshua Faraday/Vasquez, Sam Chisolm & Joshua Faraday
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	honey, we got your disease

**Author's Note:**

> was anyone going to tell me that zathura and jumanji share the same universe or was i just suppose to read that on wikipedia while researching for this fic myself??
> 
> anyway, title is from "welcome to the jungle" by guns n' roses, and i'm tired of admitting to ao3 that i have no idea how long my fics are going to take so i'm just gonna guess at four this time and go from there. like a goddamn adult.

Joshua Faraday never told a soul about what happened when he was eighteen years old, a senior in high school at the top of the food chain and the bottom of the school rankings.

He didn’t forget it, necessarily, but it didn’t come up in regular conversation, and it took a truly obscene amount of whiskey for it to come up in conversation with the people he’d gone through it _ with. _ Not to put too fine a point on it, but getting sucked into a magical video game wasn’t an experience too many people found to be relatable.

That didn’t mean he didn’t think about it sometimes, though.

It had struck him at odd times during the course of his life—he’d wake up in the morning after dreaming about Ruby Roundhouse and stumble over his feet for the rest of the day, expecting them to be booted and dainty, expecting his body to feel and move differently. Or some sleazy dude in a coffee shop would step too close for comfort and he’d feel both reflexively threatened and ready to throw down to the sounds of Big Mountain.

Odd little flights of fancy that have Reddie and Sam snorting into their drinks and calling him Ruby for the rest of the night when he tells them about it. Nice (and not-so-nice) little moments peppering fifteen years of his life after the Jungle Incident.

Joshua isn’t surprised that she wakes up to find her body’s proportions not what she expects and it turns out to be a kind of shitty day.

The barista who usually makes his coffee is out sick and the coworker covering their shift doesn’t put the extra pump of butterscotch into her breve like she asks. Some jackass on the street decides that ‘obnoxious machismo’ is the flavor of the day while she’s out for lunch and shoulder-checks her on the sidewalk. (The fact that he stumbles and looks even more like a jackass isn’t the point.) Her suitcase handle breaks when she boards her bus back to good ol’ Rose Creek in the evening.

It’s a whole-ass day, as Sam puts it, cracking open a beer while Joshua settles into her lamentation on his couch. “You sure there’s nothing else botherin’ you, son?” he asks as the conversation winds down, eyeing the dark circles under her eyes.

Joshua blinks. “Nothin’ that can’t be fixed with some quality shut-eye and some of Rosie’s fine cooking,” he says with a tired grin, and Sam smacks the back of his head like a good brother ought and heads upstairs for bed.

Stretching out on Sam Chisolm’s couch, Joshua Faraday watches the moon creep across the sky through slitted window shades and lets the day’s tensions bleed away. Sleep eventually follows and Joshua wonders if he’ll feel the shadow of Ruby Roundhouse more or less the next day.

-

The answer is: moot.

A truly ungodly amount of banging jolts Joshua awake at a time that feels equally blasphemous but is probably only about nine in the morning. Settled into the two armchairs rounding out Sam’s living room set are the man himself and a voice so distinct he doesn’t bother to open his eyes to greet it.

“Goodnight Robicheaux, if you don’t quiet down I _ will _ throw up on you.”

The man’s sputtering and Sam’s undignified cackle do nothing to help the headache pounding around Joshua’s temples, but the responding holler from the kitchen, “Josh Faraday, you better _ not!” _ is all the motivation he needs.

“Rosie!” he yelps, throwing the blanket and himself over the back of the couch and landing with a comically loud thump. Sam’s hoots of laughter rise in pitch as Joshua stumbles eagerly toward the kitchen. He steadies himself on the frame of the kitchen door and stares adoringly at Rosaline Chisolm—just as beautiful and delicate at fifty as she had been at thirty and no doubt every day she’d ever graced the Earth with her presence—poking dubiously at a set of frying eggs. “Rosie, light of my life, I missed you!”

Rosaline spreads an arm out and allows him to rush over and scoop her into a hug, gently twirling her around before setting her back on her feet much farther away from the stove.

“Here, Rosie, I can get those,” Joshua offers with his most charming smile.

She treats him to a hard look that says she knows exactly what he’s after, but surrenders the spatula with little fuss. “I want mine over medium,” Rosaline says imperiously, making her way around the peninsula to settle onto one of the stools. “With seasoning salt and two slices of Sammy’s fancy toast.”

“Hollandaise sauce?” he asks from inside the fridge. “He texted me at work yesterday asking how to make it, so he should have some left ove—aha! Found it!”

Rosaline’s expression is the same fond amusement she’d given him since he was eighteen, fresh from the weirdest experience of his life and dropping ma’ams left and right. “Yes, please,” she allows, watching him fill a pot with water and set it on the burner. “So how’s that new restaurant treating you? Sammy said you were having problems with the new manager?”

Joshua snorts reflexively then clears his throat. “Yeah, Emma was a little out of her depth at the start but we’ve got everything settled down now, nothin’ to worry about.” He ducks his head and refuses to meet Rosaline’s unimpressed stare as he unwraps Sam’s stainless steel mixing bowl and places it above the slowly heating water. “Hey, Goody, your eggs’ll be up in a minute, come make your toast!”

The sound of two grown men grumbling increases until the door swings open again and spits out Joshua’s erstwhile best friend and Rosaline’s equally useless in the kitchen brother. “Well, now, you’ve made yourself right at home like always, I see,” Goody observes with a grin. “Will you be sharing some of that with the rest of us mortals?”

“What he said,” Sam adds, topping off his coffee. He watches idly as Joshua pulls a couple tablespoons of melted butter from the microwave and begins basting the poor sunnyside bastards before they’re beyond saving. “I want mine poached.”

Joshua throws him a look. “I’m not—”

“Now, now, now, Mr. Chisolm,” Goody cuts him off with a grin. “You know as well as I do that—”

“—poaching your damn eggs, Sam—”

“—that Joshua here is a man of integrity who will not suffer the indignity of—”

“—that’s such bullshit, it’s so pretentious—”

“—incorrect breakfast nomenclature and therefore—”

_ “—you’re gonna get basted eggs like everyone else.” _

Joshua whisks the warming hollandaise sauce with a scowl and ignores everyone’s cackling. So, he’s got strong opinions about eggs and people thinking they’re getting actual poached eggs at a breakfast diner, fight him. The fact that Goody knows his rant well enough to talk over him and then finish with him at the exact same time is far more annoying than amusing, no matter what the tugging at the corners of his mouth convey.

“Just make your toast, Robicheax,” he grumbles, grabbing a pinch of cayenne and garlic salt each to sprinkle over the asshole’s breakfast. “And congratulations, Sam, your hollandaise is actually edible. Got any parsley?”

“Cabinet behind you,” is Sam’s serene reply. “You know, I didn’t ask you to make breakfast. I could’a done it just fine. Fed myself for years before you ever set foot in a restaurant kitchen.”

Joshua rolls his eyes at the blatant lie.

“Where’s Red? Thought he’d be here, too, hounding me for the worst omelet in the world,” he finally says, carefully draping Goody’s eggs onto the—oh, Jesus wept—twin slices of cinnamon raisin bread fresh from the toaster. “Why do you hurt me like this, Goodnight? I made you eggs! And you, Sam, I thought you were better than this.”

Rosaline leans over the counter to pat his hand consolingly. “It’s because he’s disgusting, Josh,” she says gravely. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

“You’re in my house, Rosie,” Sam replies sternly. “Coffee that I giveth, I can taketh away.”

She hisses like a cat and curls protectively around her own mug but says nothing.

Cracking a second set of eggs into the pan, Joshua notices as he turns the sink on with an elbow and begins to wash up the suspicious silence of Goodnight Robicheaux. “Goody? _ Hello? _ You in there?” he asks, drying his hands and turning off the heat beneath the hollandaise. A couple generous scoops go over the man’s eggs, along with a careful shake of parsley, and then the plate disappears from the counter with no answer.

No answer as he sticks a hand into Sam’s bread cupboard—why, _ why _ does the man have so many types of bread all of a sudden—and pulls out a loaf of ciabatta for Rosaline. No answer as he expertly slices it up, drizzles olive oil on the unoccupied section of the frying pan, and tosses a couple in to toast up. No answer as he taps a healthy amount of seasoning salt over the mediums and levels a hard look at him while the eggs continue cooking. Not a word.

“There somethin’ I don’t know?” Joshua says into the quiet, broken only by the scraping of metal fork against ceramic plate and sizzling oil and butter.

Goody sighs.

“Red’s auntie passed away a few weeks ago, now.” Rosaline’s voice bleeds with the same hurt that hits Joshua right in the heart. Reddie loved his mother’s sister with the determined fury of someone who was orphaned young enough to adjust but old enough to remember what he’d lost. “One of his cousins from his dad’s side moved in to try and help out, but he’s been having a tough time of it.”

_ “Damn,” _ Joshua breathes. “He didn’t say anything about it.”

“You been in contact lately?” Sam asks.

Blinking rapidly, Joshua flips Rosaline’s mediums and toast. “Yeah, we’ve been texting like normal,” he says nonplussed. Then, with the dawning realization, he corrects himself. “Actually, I’ve been texting him a lot, but he hasn’t answered back much…”

“Yeah,” Goody nods, “been like that with all of us. Even Sam. And we all pretend it’s not true, but Red adores Sam.”

It’s true enough that Sam doesn’t do his usual song and dance of denying it.

Nobody says much after that, beyond murmured thank yous when he serves up Rosaline’s and then Sam’s food. It’s yogurt studded with half-frozen berries for Joshua himself, never one for a hot breakfast, plus Sam’s staple blend of Kona coffee and about 500mg of acetaminophen. The hug Rosaline gives before heading out is extra tight.

They don’t have to do anything more than exchange looks after that before Joshua pulls on some fresh clothes, brushes his teeth, and starts texting Reddie before they’ve even left the driveway.

-

The face who greets them at Red’s door isn’t anywhere close to what Joshua was expecting.

“Uh,” he says, feeling like an asshole. “Red’s cousin, I’m assuming?”

“Incorrectly,” the unknown man blandly replies. His accent lends an almost rounded quality to his consonants. “Friend of the cousin. Billy Rocks.” He jerks a thumb behind him without looking away from their motley group. “Cousin is in the kitchen.”

Joshua shuffles his feet awkwardly and physically restrains himself from giving a little wave.

“Please excuse him,” Goodnight warmly interjects after several seconds of horrible, blank silence. “I’m afraid his manners leave quite a bit to be desired. My name is Goodnight Robicheaux, you’ve unfortunately just met Joshua Faraday, and this here is Sam Chisolm. Do you, perchance, know if Red Harvest is currently receiving visitors?”

Billy Rocks raises an eyebrow. “Perchance.”

He doesn’t even say it like he’s mocking Goody, which is the weirdest part of their short interaction yet—just a stonewalling, noncommittal response. And Goodnight keeps on smiling expectantly, as if he can outstubborn the stranger in front of them.

Sam steps up next. “Would Red or Diego mind if we at least stepped in for a moment, son?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“Could you _ ask?” _ Joshua says, annoyed.

“Sure,” Billy Rocks replies with a shrug. Then he steps away, tilts his head back, and projects better than any public speaker Joshua’s ever heard as he says, “Hey, Vasquez, can Red Harvest’s two best friends and his mentor come in for a minute? They want to check on him.”

Rolling his eyes at the realization that they’ve been had, Joshua’s nervousness sloughs off and he steps past Billy and into the house. If there’s one thing he can recognize, it’s a fellow jackass in their natural habitat. “Hey, Reddie, we’re invading your house!” he yells as Billy shuts the door behind them all, his wary expression gone in favor of lounging against the door jamb like a cat who got the canary. “That was real cute, man. Congratulations.”

Billy’s smile is a slow-growing, smug thing, bringing to mind the way a cat will tell you it’s pleased with itself.

“I thought so,” he acknowledges with a saucy wink at Goodnight, who honest to God pinks up underneath the godawful beard. “Dude, there are pictures of the four of you, like, _ all _ over this house. It wasn’t exactly a shock that you’d show up; I’d be more surprised if you didn’t.”

“Thank you kindly,” Sam says with a wry twist to his mouth. “Diego Vasquez, as I live and breathe! Didn’t you get tall, son.”

Joshua turns to sees another wholly unfamiliar man approaching from the kitchen and feels an emotional response not unlike the phrase, _ Sweet merciful Jesus. _

“Sam Chisolm, _ ¿sí? _ Been awhile,” Diego Vasquez replies with a smile that reveals a pair of deeply upsetting dimples, and Joshua feels like he’s going to have to sit down soon. At least Billy had the decency to be an asshole to them right off the bat. “We’ve been expecting you—placed bets and everything. _ Roja’s _ been sulking.”

Shaking hands with the other man, Sam grins. “Well, we had to wait for Faraday here to finally come back home. Diego, this Joshua. Josh, Vasquez.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Vasquez says, turning that smile on Joshua and shaking his hand as well. His hands are warm and calloused and Joshua lets go as soon as it’s polite, lest he do something inappropriate, like never let go at all. _ “Roja _ talks about you a lot.”

Noting the _ -a, _ Joshua smiles tightly. “Thanks, _ hombre, _ we go way back. Red here?”

“Should be downstairs,” Billy pipes up from where he’s flirting lethally with Goodnight. “We haven’t seen them all day, but their keys and wallet are still on the table, so.”

“Gotcha,” Joshua nods, unable to stop himself from shooting them finger-guns before about-facing and heading for the stairs. “Make yourself decent, Red, I’m coming down!”

He ignores the sound of Sam and Goody apologizing for his ‘rude’ behavior, as if Joshua hasn’t spent more time in this house than he has in any of his own since they were eighteen. As if he didn’t love Auntie Blue like he loves Rosaline, like he loves Sam, like he loves Red and Goody and, God help him, Jack Horne. So, yeah, he’s in a bit too much hurry to be his charming self, and thundering down the stairs seems like a decent way to see his best friend for the first time in months.

The preemptive smile slides off Joshua’s face when he sees Red’s workstation.

-

“He wouldn’t do it,” Goodnight repeats for the third time. “He just wouldn’t.”

“Yes, _ thank you, _ Goody,” Joshua says sharply, eye twitching with annoyance. “Do you have anything else to add or are you just going to keep saying what we already agreed on?”

“Are you going to explain what’s so wrong about _ Roja’s _ workstation, _ güero, _ or are you just going to keep growling at everybody?” Vasquez calls from his seat on the stairs. He’d stopped halfway down, refusing to go any farther on the basis that three grown men was more than enough for an already crowded basement.

Billy Rocks hadn’t moved past the door.

“It’s—complicated, son,” Sam answers for her. “Why don’t you go upstairs and make some of Red’s good tea? The kind he doesn’t like to share.”

“May as well leave ‘em to it, Diego,” Billy says, sounding bored at the top of the stairs. “You know how Red Harvest gets about their projects.”

_ “Eso no significa que debamos dejarlos solos aquí abajo,” _ Vasquez mutters as he stomps back up the stairs. “I’ll make the tea, but only because I’ll get to blame you when _ Roja _ gets angry about it later!”

Goodnight opens his mouth to say something but Joshua cuts him off with a hissed, “I swear to God, if you say ‘he wouldn’t’ one more _ goddamn time—” _

_ “Boys,” _ Sam sharply interjects. “Now, obviously, something happened down here involving—”

A look of deep distaste and loathing crosses his face as he looks at the all too familiar cartridge.

_ “—Jumanji, _ but there’s no reason to suspect that Red’s intentions were anything more than academic.” He casts his gaze around the scattered remains of the demonic game’s console. “I mean, I mean, look at this! The only part left intact is the cartridge—looks to me like Red might’a been fixing to see how the game itself worked, and just…”

“Got sucked back in,” Joshua suggests, too tired to bother making it a question. It’s pretty clear that Red isn’t going to just stroll back down the stairs and correct their assumptions; why they’re all just _ standing around and talking _ instead of diving back into the game and saving their friend is beyond baffling, though. “We know what happened, if not why, so why aren’t we _ fixing _it?”

“How?” Goody snaps.

“Don’t you even start, Robicheaux, you know exactly how!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam says, looking between them. “Let’s not go makin’ any rash decisions now, alright? We’ve got plenty’a time to figure this out and come up with a game plan.”

Joshua rolls her eyes. “Oh, yeah, we got _ plenty _ of time,” she sarcastically replies. “Am I the only one who remembers how fucked up time is in there? Horne was in there for _ years _ without realizing it!”

“We were all there, Joshua,” Goodnight sighs at the reminder. “Actually, _ we _ were all there while _ you _were trying to distract those guards. What’s your point?”

She makes an inarticulate noise of frustration and scrubs both hands through her hair, trying to figure out how to explain her panic. “Just—ugh!—Horne said that when Jeanie first brought _ Jumanji _ to the house, it was a board game. Then it, like, changed, right? Into this?”

“Uh-huh, I recall,” Sam muses, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Said he heard those awful drums in the middle of the night and then when he woke up in the morning, it was different.”

“Right, so—” Joshua takes a deep breath, trying to settle everything down before it boiled over. _ “So, _ what if it changed again? What if its freaky timey-wimey crap changes again, and it feels like _ longer _ to Red, instead of shorter?”

Goodnight has the decency to shudder at the thought. “Well, now that would be a peculiar kind of torture,” he admits. “Especially if that… _ thing… _ is angry that we beat it before. But you can’t _ really _ be expectin’ us to go back _ in, _ do you? After we barely escaped last time?”

Joshua squares her shoulders, lifts her chin the way her mama taught her when she was a little boy, before the system got ahold of them both. “Red would do it for any of us. You _ know _ he would.”

“He would at that,” Sam says into the resounding silence. “Wouldn’t hesitate, neither. I’m fairly sure Red Harvest is a braver person than the rest of us combined, because I don’t mind admitting that I am terrified to go back in there.” A deep breath. “But I’ll do it. For Red.”

He reaches for the controller hooked up to Reddie’s desktop and three things happen at once: Vasquez’s boots hit the stairs, a ghostly green shock sparks out of the controller and up Sam’s arm, and a set of drums that Joshua had never in his deepest dreams wanted to hear again start to beat.

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaand as always the spanish comes from google


End file.
